by Richard Nell
He denied them both, instead keeping them hidden away and plodded out in court when needed, because all were ambitious and cunning and had to be managed. He had given each a prince, then left their beds cold and empty. He knew they all hated Hali.
His steps quickened in the hall and he willed himself to be steady.
“Follow,” he hissed at guards as he passed. The men startled when they found their king near jogging, his eyes red and a growing troop of armed men gathering in his wake.
Kura—the queen and Tane’s mother, would not be guilty. Her son was the heir and no king of the isles ever changed succession laws. Favor or no, love or no, she need only wait and her son would ascend. One day, with the right control of his marriages, she would be queen mother and feared by all, her respected family’s rise assured.
But Cyntha and Turua were jealous, scorned, and lesser wives. They would never be true queens, nor given official positions. Their sons would not be kings unless Tane died, but Tane had come from the womb plump and squealing, eager for the breast and never sick for more than a week in his life.
Farahi stomped through the palace scattering breakfast cooks and serving girls, twenty men at least behind him with hands gripped tightly on scabbards, ready to kill but not knowing why or who.
He imagined Hali sitting with the women whose children all played and slept together. He imagined her unafraid and sipping her death while her killer watched and secretly laughed. In his mind, he watched her murderer show concern for her fluttering stomach, asking about the baby growing in her belly.
His hands clenched and his pace increased. In a single thread of the future he saw his guilty wife groggy-eyed and confused as the guards walked and buried her in a hole to wait and fear. He saw the trial, the family in shame, the side deals to save their honor as best he could and maintain peace.
Then he was at Cyntha’s door. He was bursting through, dragging her from her bed screaming with his own hands tangled in her hair. Next he had Turua, and he strapped them both to chairs in a bedroom that held an empty crib.
“Please, please what’s wrong!” they cried. He said nothing and let them fear. Soldiers blocked the hall outside with weapons drawn, and he closed the door.
“One or both of you killed Hali,” he said, watching their faces. “Admit it now, or I swear on my sons you’ll die suffering, and in terror.”
They stared at him in horror. They wept at the ‘news’, denied, begged, assured their love and devotion and how could they kill her when they didn’t even know she’d died?
Then he asked how they liked their tea.
He had his guards heat the pot in Hali’s room, pouring it into deep porcelain mugs meant for water, and when he met Turua’s eyes, he knew the truth.
She opened her mouth to speak but he’d crossed the room, slapping her across the face with a half-closed hand hard enough to tip her chair. Then he was straddling and crushing her, blocking out the changing futures in his mind as the daughter of a king coughed and choked and shook. She died in his grip, and her sister-wife wept like a child.
He stumbled from the room knowing it meant war with King Saefen and maybe all the Molbog, and the timing couldn’t be worse. He knew he’d be sending men to die because again he acted like his father, and like Kikay—like a bloodthirsty tyrant that ebbed and flowed instead of living the laws as he made them.
He knew too he had taken a concubine he didn’t need—that he’d loved her when he shouldn’t, and killed for her memory though she’d have asked him not to.
His guards took the corpse and untied his innocent wife, walking her back in a daze to be locked up and held till Farahi said otherwise. They did not question him. Not anymore—not after so many years of his victories, of his survival, of his beating the odds when every man in Pyu said the Alakus were finished.
He hated himself because he would need his sister now, one more time. He would need to kill and lie so others could live, and then to become the king he should have been all along.
It was a king he would despise—hard, and ruthless, who sometimes overlooked but never forgave—who judged all, who oversaw all, who brooked no lies or violence except his own, final, but fair. When not fair, then at least victorious. It was the only version of him that could save the future.
No more love, he thought, holding back the grief. No more favor or watching the sunrise or hoping for the best. The worst was coming, Hali’s death had confirmed it, and he must choose the lesser evil.
Long ago Farahi had seen two futures for his people, each with a thousand threads leading to inevitable doom.
In the first came Naran. This death for Pyu was slow, but sure, and could be made tolerable with surrender. The other was far worse. All his life it had been almost a mystery—a nightmarish fever-dream with foreign strangers and a dark sky full of ash.
But it was this dream that was coming, Farahi knew that now. Though perhaps still it could be managed.
Farahi knew in either case he must unite the isles, no matter the protest. He must make allies beyond the seas that bore his name, on the coast and further. And maybe, just maybe, he must embrace a strange genius whose life was so frightening and full of threads—whose tapestry seemed so great and wide it might wrap around the world and crush it. Or he could be the answer. He could save the isles, and more, much more.
No matter what Farahi did, many would now die. He had only to choose to let it be in some other man’s time—to turn away from the peril and pretend he did not see, or else to face it.
Farahi saw the man he could become after Hali’s death. He could grow gaunt and reclusive, letting his sister rule Sri Kon with an iron fist until the doom. But Ando had come to him, not Kikay. Fate had thrust this responsibility upon him, and his people needed him. They deserved a chance. Farahi would bear it, and so must they.
In that moment, walking through the hushed halls of his ancestor’s palace, he gave up all the things that made men human. He became a king, and only that, with a purpose far beyond one man and his dreams. He watched the threads of the future changing, twisting in his mind’s eye as he committed.
Tomorrow, he thought, I will bury my joy in the earth with her beautiful corpse.
Then he would find a way to take control of the isles—but not as all the Alakus had done before him. Not ‘unofficially’ and with restraint, for this was not enough.
Farahi would bind the lesser kings and city-states beneath his banner formally, imposing laws he would enforce with an iron fist until the islanders learned to curb their corruption—until they became master stewards of their beautiful isles, and worthy of their fortune. Worthy to be judged.
It would be cold and endless toil and death and danger. It would require a great king to face a barbarian from a frozen land, and ask to be weighed, and measured. But he would do it. And only then might the Pyu survive.
Chapter 32
“Release!”
Ruka called from his position on the highest bank, and the many foremen took up the call. All along the make-shift diversions holding small lakes of the Kubi’s water, the builders leapt to action.
The first teams pulled iron catches and slid wooden doors, opening spillways that would race back to the river proper. As they did, water roared and ripped chunks of earth along its path to the sea, mud-spattered men following it cheering and running to see their triumph, or perhaps disaster.
The half-pipe overflowed at first, sloshing water out and around the weir’s ‘steps’. But it ebbed quickly, sediment circling before the drop in spirals then flowing down as it should. Soon the Kubi moved along its original path, flowing through the construction and new walls at the lowest edges most prone to flooding.
“Bugger all the gods in their arses.” Hemi put his callused hands to his red scalp, face a mix of fear and disbelief. “It’s bloody working!” The men cheered, and he reached up blindly to grasp Ruka’s shoulders but managed only upper back.
“Of course it is.” Ruka glanced down,
his face calm. Very slowly, he allowed a smile.
Hemi saw it and laughed in crescendo, finishing with a cough born no doubt from his filthy habits.
It was funny because—several times—they had almost failed.
As dry threatened to turn to wet, the waters of Pyu had risen again. The men carved out new channels, widened others, fighting a war with the tide that split every man’s hands and lips with toil, all eyes on the surface as it bulged.
“Of course it is, he says!” Hemi aped and clapped his hands. “I’ll be bloody rich!” he announced more loudly than he should have.
“You’re already rich, Master Builder.”
“Well I’ll be richer!” Hemi’s worry drained and disappeared with the unblocked river, and Ruka smiled without purpose. He was glad he hadn’t let Bukayag kill the man.
Over the months of effort he’d seen Hemi was a good leader who treated his workers with care. Builders did and always would die in their jobs, but Hemi was a man who paid fairly and tried to prevent it. When he failed he often looked after widows and children, sometimes paying dowries for new husbands, or letting whole broods live in his homes. He’d even married an ex-foreman’s widow because she was old and plain and had five children. He treated all as his own.
“To the South now, at least, the river shouldn’t flood.” Ruka looked out on the water flaring white with air as it moved through his dam. “But we should build another, smaller weir further upstream, and perhaps spillways to the North. After that…” he shrugged, then noticed the other man staring.
“You’re a damned bloody madman savage, you know that?” Hemi coughed again, leaning down with his hands on his knees as if tired. He shook his head and stood. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, first, then we can go on world-shaping. Maybe a few drinks, eh?” He raised his hand high so the men could see, shouting over the roar of the water. “Two weeks pay, boys! And tonight a drunken debauch!” His workers whooped and spread the news to the stragglers. “On the damned king!” Hemi added, laughing with genuine pleasure. Ruka nodded, but did not share it.
Now that he’d finished he would face Farahi, and the unspoken would become spoken. He would not be permitted to leave.
After Hali’s death they’d not met again. Every day Ruka labored with Hemi and his men, then returned to the palace. His access to tutors at least had been restored, and he had never been denied the library, so each night he spent learning as much as he could.
But Farahi was a practical man, and a powerful king, and when he saw the value of the weir he would not simply give up his new servant. Ruka would ask to leave, and Farahi would find some excuse.
‘Wait till after the war’ seemed most likely, since from dawn till evening every person on the island seemed to rise and whisper of its coming.
‘Farahi killed his wife, another king’s daughter, with his bare hands!’ they now said, ‘and he killed his concubine too!’ they agreed, for some ‘unholy ritual’. Ruka never bothered to correct them.
It seemed now the ‘Molbog’ were angry and breaking treaties and ignoring court summons like the Trung. ‘Pirates’ were attacking Sri Kon’s merchants, or kidnapping or murdering, or poisoning their wells. All the islands suffered.
Trung, it seemed, had many allies who hated Alaku dominance. Hemi even whispered of a ‘Triumvarate’—a sharing of power between three minor kings, though none seemed to agree on who the third was.
In any case it seemed Farahi was losing control. Even the builders sometimes muttered in their cups that maybe a Trung should be king after all—that maybe a ‘kinslaying demon-summoner’ angered the gods and would bring Pyu to ruin in the end.
Ruka refrained from pointing out, if bitter war truly came, it would be they and their sons first drafted.
* * *
That night in a worker’s pub Ruka drank three rums for each of Hemi’s. As usual he half-sat, half-leaned so the cheap chair wouldn’t snap beneath his weight. He threw back cups with two fingers, ignoring stares from locals who weren’t builders, and the smells of so many half-naked, sweaty bodies.
“My wives will kill me before Trung’s army, wait and see.”
Hemi smoked like a winter chimney when he drank, thick scoops of tobacco wrapped in paper staining his fingers yellow. He did most of the talking, too.
“Let’s move to the continent! Ha!” He made a face and raised the pitch of his voice to a mocking, whiny squeel, then slid his elbows across the wet table. “Women, Ruka,” he raised a finger to help drive home his wisdom, “women are like children, my friend. Everything is urgent. Everything is now.”
Ruka nodded and threw back another cup from his collection. He thought of his mother suffering for years, of her trek across a frozen wasteland alone except for an infant, all to protect the future at the price of her own life and happiness.
He pointed at the door which meant he had to piss, then stood and made his way in a zigzag, trying not to crush anyone.
He weaved through the alley, night air cool and pleasant against his skin after the stuffy pub. He was dressed like the islanders now, wearing only shorts and sandals and sometimes a silk shirt to block the sun, but not tonight. He tromped through dirty sand and braced his shoulder against a tree that grew huge fruits all year.
Would it live in the Ascom, he wondered? Or would the winter choke its life like so many other things?
They weren’t far from the beach here. He looked out at the waters of paradise, wondering if perhaps he should just stay at Farahi’s side for a time. Ruka was a young man, and he had time. He could regain the king’s trust and attention with the weir, perhaps return to their games and conversation.
The thought threatened to wake Bukayag. It seemed a great deal like acceptance, and could lead to the worst kind of betrayal. His mother had not taken the easy road. She had given all, just like her ancestors and theirs. And for all his flaws, or whatever he might wish, Ruka was the only man in all the world who knew the truth of the Vishan. It made him responsible.
Remember us, they whispered from the grave—brave men and women he would not exist without—survivors fleeing conquerors to a foreign sea and a frozen hell.
Ruka looked at his missing toe and finger and wondered what else must he lose for his mother’s purpose. What else must he suffer, and sacrifice, and why must he alone bear the burden of history?
He blinked and felt a tingle on his neck. His body’s vision swam from the rum, but in his Grove he was sober and scrambled for a weapon. He flexed his legs and torso and coiled to strike, feeling the air disturbed as a knife flew past his shoulder, sinking into the tree.
“You’re dead,” said a quiet voice from the shadows.
Ruka looked at the length and edge of the blade and greatly doubted that. But he smiled.
“Loa, pirate.” He turned slowly, thinking perhaps in truth it would be wise to kill the dangerous man. “How is your princess?”
Arun snorted. He wore his black silks, though his face was uncovered. Knife-handles poked from his hip.
“I owed you a life, my friend, consider it paid. Kikay wanted your head.”
Ruka sighed, not surprised, exactly. “You know what she is, pirate?”
“No different than you or I, savage.”
Bukayag bristled at being compared to anything, but Ruka dismissed this as arrogance. Anyway, he knew it was wrong. He stepped them forward and crooked their neck. “No, not like us, pirate. We can be monsters. But your princess has no choice.”
The ex-monk’s eyes narrowed. He stepped away and almost growled.
“What do you know? Don’t speak of her.”
Ruka smiled at the tone—for it rung hollow, and desperate.
“I know many things I shouldn’t. I know Farahi would never harm her, and that they deceive you. I know she loves only him in all the world, and that you’re just her pet.” He spit the last word, and the monk’s face twisted but his eyes revealed the truth.
“I take what I want from her.�
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“Is that why you free’d me, pirate?” Ruka stepped forward again, or maybe Bukayag did. “All your efforts to seduce a princess? To be her toy? Is that the end of your ambitions?”
His words pierced his own chest, ringing in his ears. Is this place the end of mine?
“No.”
Arun’s voice sounded hollow now, his protest so familiar.
Ruka breathed and stretched his mind out to the future, seeing his meeting with Farahi, then his wild and bloody escape from Pyu. He would steal a ship and cut a path through the sea to freedom, that was clear enough. But there was far more. He had a new legend to spin, a land of ash to conquer or maybe unite, and then the isles…
“Join me,” he said, watching close as he spoke, noting every line and sparkle and twist of the shadow’s face. “Join me, pirate, and one day you will have Kikay in your power. And then anything else you wish, because one day, you’ll be a great lord. Perhaps even a king.”
The monk stared into Ruka’s eyes, a small twitch like a fish trying to slip its hook. Ruka saw the limitless greed, untempered by reality, and he knew he could own this man without the torture once required of Egil. Arun was a man of vision.
No doubt he would make his own plans and try to twist things to his benefit. This was to be expected. He could have no conception, no inkling of the future and the tides of change to come.
“How.” The ex-master of the Ching asked as if only curious—as if he pretended not to believe, and not to care.
Ruka smiled.
He told him of his people, at least in part—of great warriors across the sea, ready to flood across weaker peoples and make their claim. He told him of fat-bellied kidnappers in a house on Trung’s island who would be needed first.
“Help me escape, pirate, as you once did in Trung’s dungeon. I will raise an army of monsters in my homeland, and together, we will change this place forever.”
Chapter 33
Ruka knelt before Farahi for what he hoped was the last time. They were in his huge official audience hall, the same room used to hold court. Blue carpet stretched in a line from doorway to throne; pillars made from an almost clear but opaque stone dotted the path on both sides, and Ruka waited to the king’s left to be called.